


The Way Home

by sarahsolver



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: AU, Angst, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-24
Updated: 2017-04-01
Packaged: 2018-09-19 17:02:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 6
Words: 11,326
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9451343
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sarahsolver/pseuds/sarahsolver
Summary: Harry loses his magic and finds Snape.





	1. After the Funeral : An Epilouge

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story was started back in 2008 as a sort of epic three book fic. It languished on my hard drive, got kicked around and slowly eaten. A few weeks ago I recovered an early version and decided to post it. I've run through most of what was already written, re-thought story lines and decided to condense it all down. It's canon compliant up to the end of HBP although its been almost 10 years since I last read the series so there will probably be inaccuracies and out of place references. If you let me know about them I'll try to rework them, although depending on how time intense it will be I may just decide to leave them. A chapter in this fic will be made up of lots of POV changes and shorter sections although as we get further into the story there may be a few chapters entirely from one POV. I hope you enjoy the story.

It is autumn and leaves foxtrot down the side walk ahead of him, as if to usher him on. He is alone on this street with only the wind licking at his neck for company, teasing at the tassels of his scarf. He walks past wrought iron fences belonging to muggle families who do not know his face or speak his name like it is some rare sweet perched high in the pockets of their cheeks. He peers wistfully at their dark windows and hurries on, held captive by the house he is fast approaching.

He stops at the gate and gently pushes the latch up, standing there awhile with his arms on the gate, like a child in the summer who will swing until Mother calls them in. Then he goes up the worn steps and stops to stroke a flutterby bush that quivers under his hand. He presses his wand to the door right below knocker and watches as it swings open, gaping dark before. A sigh and a whispered Lumos and he steps inside, home at long last.


	2. The Boy Who Lost

**Nov 5th,1996**

It was dark and he sat huddled into the fire waiting for the dawn to break. It is just him, Ron, and Hermione this time on a fool's errand that seems to be leading no where. While they are not technically acting under the umbrella of the Order they still receive instructions though they've been coming less and less frequently. They always come from Remus who looks at Harry like he is everything lost. Harry had hated seeing his eyes which were too reminiscent of Sirius and the still sore sorrow left behind. Its better now that they are just owling.

Hermione turns in her sleep behind him, muttering some dream incantations. The air in the woods feels blighted somehow, tainted with death and some twisted purpose. They are down the hill from the Gaunt house in a small corpse of trees that provides little real shelter. When they had first come, hiking instead of apparating so as not to leave any magical trail behind, they had started to make camp outside the Riddle house. Then the the wind had blown a certain way and they had heard Frank Bryce's screams coming from the mansion. They had turned tail and ran, fleeing blindly from some nameless terror.

By mutual agreement they had retreated to the Gaunt house which was just as forbidding as the Riddle mansion but at least it held no personal terror. The only dread that hung over it was nameless and faceless. When dawn breaks he shakes Hermione awake. "Come on, 'Mione. Time to go." She surges into wakefulness with eyes clear and ears tuned to danger. There is no more coming to life in stages for them, just the quick leap of the hunted.

"Harry, I though I told you to wake me at three." She scolds as she rises and neatly rolls up her blankets. "I wasn't really tired." He replies and she looks through his lie with such pity he feels bugs crawl over his skin. He scratches at them and they scuttle off under their rocks. They both know him, can see through his soul by now. They know that when he closes his eyes he sees only the dead and so he chooses not to sleep at all. 

"Wake Ron, alright? I'll start the coffee." She moves over the fire and sets some grounds to brew inside a blue and white speckled coffee pot. Ron is merely a tuft of hair poking out of a Muggle sleeping bag. Harry shakes him awake, smiling as he surveys the camp and then rolls over like he is in his bed in Gryffindor. "G'way." He snorts and burrows back into the bag. Harry grins and dumps onto the ground with a hefty tug on the bottom of his sleeping bag. Ron stares up at him with hooded eyes. "Bloody 'ell, Harry. That's a bit much even for you." Harry laughs. "Not my fault. 'Moine told me to wake you up."

Ron rises slowly, kicking his sleeping bag into a ball before moving to squat near the fire. Hermoine gives him a fond scowl before handing him a cup of coffee. The three of them sit around the fire and quietly drink breakfast. They have grown accustomed in the past days to sitting together in silence, feeling each others weariness and pain on some atomic level. Hermoine is the first to break the silence. "We should probably get going." Harry and Ron nod before moving off to pack up their bed rolls. Hermoine pours what is left of the coffee next to a tree and quickly douses the fire before kicking dirt over it.

They break camp in less then ten minutes and climb out of the trees, setting out across the valley. As they approach the Riddle House they begin to lag, weighed down under the sick feeling that grows in their stomachs. The house its self looks like some sinister cartoon in the Sunday papers that he used to read huddled behind the garbage bin outside. Strange as it is the place brings to mind sun beating down on his shoulders and the sickly sweet smell of rotting fruit laid over blurry home movies of green grass laid under blue-blue sky behind Privit drive.

He glances over at Ron and Hermoine. Hermoine's face is set, her eyes screaming comic determination. Ron is gawping, his mouth set in a giant O that makes his whole face go slack with idiocy. He knows his open mouth is lax with resignation, his eyes silently blank, his whole being melting away into some other, relaxed in his repose. The three of them together look like mimes, striking the pose of a picture glimpsed once long ago on the nursery stairs and ever since forgotten except in their muscles. Title:Three Heroes. Subtitle: Go Off to Battle and Face Great Danger. Then the moment passes and they are merely themselves again, climbing up the front lawn to the Riddle manor.

It covers the whole of the ridge, leering out at them in an obscene manner. It is a mishmash of styles, the Georgian manor, the spectacularly Gothic towers, and the small porch which looked as if one of the Riddle men had put it up themselves. The door is open and after the long night and the dreadful trudge up the lawn it is a simple thing to walk up the porch and slip through it, entering the Riddle house.

The door opens onto a hall that seemed to run the length of the house, wider then Hagrid was tall. There are doors leading off of it and at the end huge double doors, carved all over with leering gargoyles and smirking green men. Along the way muggle pictures hang and tables holds clusters of burnt out candles. The whole scene seems utterly repulsive, the moth eaten carpets, the damaged paintings, the gawping holes in the floor, the mold that had crept onto the walls, and in the middle of such ruin candle stubs. Not thrown onto the floor or melted into piles on the mahogany tables but left just as they are, a tangible measure of greed and loss.

"I reckon we'd best try upstairs first." Ron mutters, eyeing the great staircase that rose above them. "I don't think so. We thought he'd hid it somewhere that had meaning for him. He's never lived here and when he was here before it was just to...to kill his family." Hermione replies in a distracted tone. "But he did live here didn't he? Lived for who knows how long. I still think its upstairs." Ron insists. Harry says nothing but wanders over to a door and pulls it open, revealing what had been a formal parlor. "Christ, it's dreary in here." He remarks before closing the door and turning to the one across the hall.

This is a large library, stacked with musty leather books. The shelves were far too neat to have ever been touched. The door was shut rather quickly on this one as well; Harry feels nothing emanating from the dark corners. Then they turn to a small door next to the wide staircase. As soon as he opens the door Harry is bowed under the malice. "It's here." Hermione says, unnecessarily as is her wont. It is a small parlor, one large fireplace and couches arranged around it. On the mantle sits a large cup, fashioned into the shape of a raven, the wings outstretched to form handles. Harry thinks that if the cup were alive it would whisper, in smooth syllables, of all the hideous knowledge bound up in books.

He steps forward and Ron comes up behind him with the sword in hand. Hermoine is preparing a box to transport what is left back to Hogwarts. They move with surgical precision, an arm outstretched, a spell chanted, a sword raised. Harry moves over the cup and brings the sword down in a silver arc that ends in red sparks and the feeling of air, tumbling over its self to leave his lungs. He sees rather then feels Ron push him away and take up the sword.

#

It had sat for years, waiting. The wind came to push at the curtains, swishing them back and forth like the children used to when they played hide and seek. The floor boards fell in under the weight of their own yearning. The rain crept in and settled on the walls with certainty, paving the way for the mold that came after it. Still it waited. It sensed the intrusion before it came, before they walked up the porch and through the door. It watched as they wandered through halls and peeked into the corners of it's frame. When they fell, first the one with a singing-sickness that touched his soul and then the next, the one who had struck the final withering blow, it watched. It watched as people came and bore them away, it watched as they left and it hummed in careful contentment once they were gone.


	3. And Then Came Severus

He was the first one on site. He saw Potter lying like a corpse and then Weasley, sword still in his blackened hand. The room smells of burnt flesh and evil magic, still hovering in the air. He hovers over them, afraid to breathe, and unwilling to touch. He is a coward at heart, scared of what he knows will not come to pass. Still he cannot bring himself to touch the children.

Arthur and Molly apparate in and rush to their son, leaving him to hover over Potter. The boy is red and back, charred skin peeling off him in strips and mouth gaping open in petrified scream. He feels a stab of agony at the thought of what he must be suffering, splayed out on the ground, the feel of anything touching such painful skin. He hesitates to use magic though, it may very well only accelerate the damage done.

He feels utterly helpless as he has not since that Hallowed Evening so many years ago. Then, as now, Dumbledore came. Far too late but still managing to salvage that which was most important. Harry is here, Harry is alive, and Dumbledore is leaning over him and muttering quick incantations before scooping him up to swirl away. Dumbledore came and so there is nothing left for Severus to do but follow.

They apparate to the Burrow, levitating the boys into a small room crowded with two twin beds. The damage done to the walls, burn marks and stains, suggest that it had formerly housed the twins. Normally Severus would refuse to set foot in any place formerly inhabited by those menaces. Even being in the same room with them for two hours every other day for seven years had lost him several robes and forced him to evacuate class on a regular basis. But now he simply ran in behind Albus and yelled for bandages.

"No! That will only make it worse. Severus, see to Ron." He nodded grimly and slid in next to Arthur, who was kneeling next to Ron. Tears were streaming down his face although Severus doubted he was aware of it. "It's alright, Ronnie. It'll be okay. We're going to fix it." He pushed Arthur aside-clearly the man was in shock, thank Merlin his wife had no such problem-and ran his wand over the boy. His body shone faintly green, culminating in his hand which glowed a brilliant moss green.

He opened the bag he had set to levitating  behind him and drew out a bottle. He hadn't been able to grab anything other then his emergency bag when Ms. Granger had summoned them and he mourned the absence of his stock of antidotes. Still, a vigorous cleansing potion to clear the body, topical application of Adversitas to the hand, ground bezor dusted over it...

The room is humming with activity. Molly bursts back in and hands him a medicine chest which he thrusts to the side. He pours potions down the boy, wraps bandages around his hand, casts spells that have him spewing out both ends-unpleasant but necessary for the removal of the poison-then casting spells to clean away his mess. He works steadily and when he finally looks up hours have passed. Molly and Arthur are standing together at the foot of the bed, arms entangled.

"He's alright then." She tries to make it a statement but her voices curls up at the end, giving her away. "He will live. He was severely poisoned centering in his right hand. I cannot say what sort of use he will have of it in the future. Poppy will be better able to tell when she arrives." He speaks shortly, already turning to Albus. "How is he?" The elderly wizard sighs. "See for yourself."

He waves his wand over Potter's body and the boy lights up like a Christmas tree. The only way to describe it is to say that he has been seared, inside and outside, like a particularly rare steak. Severus feels his stomach turn. Albus has already set his skin regrowing, his organs neatly healing themselves, a steady stream of burnt tissue spewing out of his mouth while his charred skin flies off and regrows. He can tell that Albus has reached the limit of what triage spells can do for the boy. He no longer looks like he has suffered massive third degree burns although his new skin has clearly suffered trauma.

He allows himself a quiet sigh of relief

#

There is the ceiling of the Burrow above him and George's bed under him, the whole place smelling of burnt things, the most horrid of which was flesh. He blinks, seemingly unable to do any more and watches. Mr. and Mrs. Weasley sit next to Ron, who is laid out in the bed across from him, his right hand wrapped in bandages and placed over the quilt. Sirius hovers next to him, a dark impression out of the corner of his eye. Remus sits in a chair and holds his hand though he knows this only by looking, touch seemed to be missing from his world. And there is Snape and Dumbledore working over him with potions passed hand to hand and spells frantically chanted.

The room, barely large enough for two teenage boys, seems stifled and muggy now. There are too many bodies pressed into each other. Harry wonders why Cedric Diggory is sitting in the corner, looking as if he has come to pay his respects. Oh no. He can't be dead. If he were dead then all of these people wouldn't be trying to save him. Would they? Still, it is comforting to know that Cedric cares enough to come say goodbye. His head aches as Madame Pomfrey flings the door open and casts a hex of such power that his eyelids close, stopping all observation in its tracks.

#

**Nov 7,1996**

When Harry opens his eyes again it is morning and the smell of burnt flesh is gone. He lifts his head to see the room more clearly, casting his gaze across the gable next to the bed and skittering over the floorboards. The quilt that had been spread so lightly over him was a blue and green patchwork, too subdued to be Mrs. Weasely's creation. The table next to him holds potions and boxes of pills that perched on top of coverless paperbacks.

It had been filled with antique furniture, hiding under white sheets so the whole room had looked like it was sitting shiva. The windows were barred and covered so only the faint glow of sun and the spare rays from the hall candles entered the room. Then Remus had shaken the off the sorrow that had wafted out of the open door and strode inside, tearing off the sheet across the window and throwing it onto the floor. "There. We can leave this one for later I think. It doesn't feel dangerous." He said with a small smile for Sirius, who had nodded his agreement before they drifted off to the next room.

At dinner Remus had suggested that the store room become Harry's bedroom and Sirius had smiled for the first time that day. He had never seen it though, not after it was cleaned out and repainted, not after it had become his. He had been called away before they could start on it. Now Sirius is dead and Remus has been sent to London. Now he owns Grimauld Place.

He turns back to his pillow and sleeps, feeling keenly the empty place inside him where once power had resided.

#

Severus stands on the front step of number 12 Grimauld Place and tries very hard not to puke. His stomach churns and threatens rebellion, bile pushing up his esophagus and burning the back of his throat. He can feel the boy upstairs, feel the absence of magical power that normally pushed at him, overwhelming him until he grew into a bowstring, taunt and quivering. Now there is only weakness and the smell of antiseptic, though he hadn't been near a muggle hospital in his life.

Severus reaches out a hand and pulls open the door, stepping into the hall. As soon as he does a new loss pulls through him. The house, which had been the source of so much agonized bliss to him for so long, no longer looks anything like he remembers. The front hall is smaller, more cozy then imposing. Instead of the grand staircase, banisters lined up like so many Victorian widows, there is a low boxy stair, hemmed in all around by waist high walls. There is a landing in which sits an alcoved window with a seat under it. The cushion is, inexplicably, bright red and the curtains the same garish cherry. The walls have been whitewashed and Walburgha Black has been silenced forever, by what means, magical or otherwise, he cannot guess.

He can think of nothing on earth it looks like so much as a cottage by the beach, where it is afternoon and the owners have stepped out for a stroll on the sand. He feels the pressing need to put an end to this chapter and so mounts the stair, walking like a child with heel to toe. Potter lies burrowed under covers, only his hair visible in the afternoon sun. He looks for all the world like a turtle, a very furry one, that happened to find its way into Grimmauld Place.

Severus sits in the chair next to him and begins a series of diagnostic spells, just for fun. They bring the same results as always so he puts his wand away and glares at the coverless paperback on the bedside table. Obviously the werewolf had been here. Severus wonders why he bothers taking off the cover, the sensational muggle dramas are unmistakable. He sits quietly and does not watch the boy sleep, he has no idea what time it is when Harry finally opens his eyes.

"Snape." It sounds as if the very tissue of his throat has been burnt, as if he has spend the last year and a half since Severus had seen him chain smoking those horrid muggle cigarettes."Potter." He lobs back the customary greeting, each opponent bowing before the duel. "How have you been?" Potter asks and makes Severus feel like kind of person who pulls the wings off of dragonflies. "Much better then you, Mr. Potter. Potions. This is to be taken once an hour, 5 mL."

He turns to a bottle and opens it, pulling out a dropper. The boy lays there mute as Severus carefully measures the dose and moves to loom over him. His eyes widen as Severus gently brushes over his lips which open automatically. The liquid disappears into his mouth and hangs there, dangerously close to leaking out. Severus closes his jaw firmly and rubs his throat in small circles, slow and caressing. The boy swallows and he steps back, leaving Potter gaping up at him.

He says nothing about how idiotic Potter looks or how useless he is. "I'll leave this here and set the alarm for Lupin. There is a restorative that may help with the symptoms. I'll bring some by soon." He walks out the door quickly with no time for the boy to say anything back to him and shuts it quietly before sinking down onto the steps.

#

Harry watches Snape leave through narrowed eyes, wondering why even now he hates him. He wants to know what will make Snape change his mind, how many trolls he must fight before he finally gets a well-done or even just a smile. He laughs at the thought of the greasy bat smiling but has to stop mid-way through a chuckle, he has no energy left. He sleeps for a while and the sun is just setting when Remus comes in, holding a damp tea towel.

He smiles at Harry and moves over him to place a hand on his forehead. "You look better. How do you feel?" Harry doesn't know what to say to this. "I've...it's not right...I haven't got. I've lost something." And until then he had not had a chance to think of it, to name that dreadful cold feeling in his gut, settling oil-like inside his intestines. Remus looks as if he is about to cry, something Harry has no wish to see. He moves over into the chair that Snape had sat in and takes one of Harry's hands into his own. "Do you remember what happened?"

And Harry understands, somewhere deep in his bone, that this means he will not want to remember. "A little. I remember going into the parlor. We were standing in front of the mantel and the cup, Ron and I. Hermione was kneeling behind us with the sword. She handed it to me...I think I hit it. Did I?" "Yes. It's destroyed." "And Hermione got all the pieces shielded?" "Yes, it's all taken care of." Remus's voice is still low and tinged with melancholy like the whippoorwill after dusk. "Hermione said that there must have been extra curses on the cup. That was why...you struck it and it attacked. Hermione said there wasn't any thing else to do so Ron destroyed it. His hand is withered...Snape says he'll be alright."

What about me, Harry thinks. What will happen to me? Remus must have read the question in his eyes because he answers it, slowly and with care. "The curse burned. Snape said that's the only comparison; that it burned. It burned away your magic, seared it or something. Snape says that you may recover, given enough time. And rest." Snape says. Well if Snape said then it must be right. Remus drops the potion into his mouth and waits until he has swallowed to gently kiss his head. "I'll be downstairs, okay? Just...oh, here." He hands Harry a hand bell. "Just ring that, okay?" Harry nods and slides back under the covers, eager to be gone.


	4. Snitches and Snakes

Severus sat in the quiet of Spinner's End and ran his finger quickly over the page of a book.

Severus stood over a potion in the quiet lab, brewing his own invention at midnight, because what else would he ever excel at?

Severus lay under the weight of such pain, James Potter's wand pointed at him.

Severus knelt next to Regulus, tracing the lines of his face, feeling him tremble with anticipation.

Severus sat in the chair in the middle of the living room and did not cry, Princes never cried.

He pulls out of his pensive and wonders why Dumbledore would ever willingly subject himself to such a thing. The feel of old memories passing over his skin was like the burn of the Marauder's wands, etching lines into his chest. He had thought, when the violet hours before dawn had come and he still hadn't been able to sleep for picturing Harry lying like a corpse, that this would help calm him. Instead looking over his life merely frightened him, left him thinking both of Regulus and Lucius but mostly of the darkness that greeted him, both when he answered the summons and when he came home afterwards.

He stands and opens the door, going swiftly down the passage to his lab. There he will crush and dice and grind and mix and stir until all of his thoughts are quiet and the only thing he hears is the gentle purr of the flames beneath his cauldron. He stops halfway to the lab and sighs, waiting for a gray owl to land softly on his outstretched arm. He unties a note and launches the bird into the air, though not before it gives his hand an offended nip. None of the school owls ask for treats anymore, having learned years ago that the large crow who had taken up residence in the darkness of their castle never carried anything edible.

Dear Severus, I am somewhat concerned about one of your snakes. He has been very sullen lately, non-communicative. Perhaps you could speak to him? Of course you can feel free to drop by any time, tea is always on!

He grits his teeth and forces himself to remain silent. Did Albus really think he hadn't noticed? His spi-snakes were constantly on his mind, analyzing information and linguistic patterns to ensure accurate information, worrying when one went a week or more without contact, always aware that they -mere children most of them- were risking their sanity to deliver to him the information the Order needed. He never allowed himself to think of their daily lives. Tortured, abused, likely raped at the hands of his fellow Death Eaters. Still he fell into a peculiar melancholy every time one of the became silent.

He sighs and makes a mental note to see Dumbledore the next afternoon for tea.

 

#

 

She is not afraid because she is never afraid. She thinks it is one of the things that left her long ago, after the short months she can remember being a child in. Earlier tonight he had his hand around her throat and she had wiggled and thrashed and begged him with her eyes, had given him what he needed. And after she had gone limp inside his hands and had felt her eyes glaze over and close, had ceased to feel the burn in her lungs and started to feel her brain systematically shut down, he had let her go. Had put his lips to hers and revived her because after so many years of being his girl, he now needed her just as much as she needed him.

When he had gone still above her and arched his back in ecstasy she had entered his eyes and smoothly fingered through the stacks of his memories. And as he shuddered and started to go limp she had quickly taken the one she wanted, tucked it up inside the cracks of her mind. He had left soon after he was done but not before gently splitting open her nipples and watching the tears leak from her eyes. She understood that this was not for him but for the bitch, who was always watching, growing hot at the sight of blood. She knew that he would never let the bitch touch her though, because he needed her, and the bitch had a tendency to break her toys.

He always just hurt her, never killed her. He had helped the bitch kill other ones though; sometimes he made her watch. But now he is gone and she goes quickly to her room and pulls out a snitch, cracking it open before placing the stolen memory inside it. She thinks a quick spell and the snitch begins to rise, darting quickly out the window. She doesn't know where it will go, only that it will reach someone who knows what to do with it. Her work done she settles back down and quickly reinforces her defenses, numbing the nerve endings, building another layer in the false maze around her mind, compartmentalizing and sorting, imagining that she is once again a little girl who lives in a yellow house with both of her parents and no one who wanted her to bleed.

 

#

 

 **Nov 8,1996**

Harry wakes again to the sound of Remus's careful tread upon the stairs, moving with a disturbing regularity. He looks down at his hands before carefully flexing them. His skin feels tight against his bones and he wonders how long it will take him to notice all the side effects. He had lost track of time while he was asleep though it couldn't have been more then a day since Snape was here. God, that had been awkward. Though Snape hadn't seemed to think so; had just calmly coaxed the potion down his throat then narrowed his eyes at him before barking out his orders and leaving. He hadn't shown any sign of unease, though Harry wondered whether he would have shown it even if he had felt awkward. Probably not.

  
Remus opens the door and moves to stand beside Harry. "Hey, how are you feeling?" He asks as he opens a bottle. "Better, it doesn't feel like my skin's going to fall off if I move the wrong way." Remus holds a dropper to his lips and he swallows. "You look much better." He runs a hand over Harry's tousled hair and smiles. "Are you ready talk?" Harry feels something deep in his stomach dive down, making him feel ready to puke quarts of potions and stomach acid all over Remus. "Yeah, of course."

"Ron's all right, he's stabilized and already up. He-They all want to see you but I wasn't sure if you'd be up for much. Mrs. Weasley has been asking about you." His words strike a chord somewhere in Harry and he manages to dredge up a faint memory, like the half-forgotten chorus to what was once your favorite song. Himself flung beetle-spread over the floor, making no sound at all and a faint pop of apparition-damn them! And a large warm shape coming out of the mist. It passes by him though, running to the screaming sobbing shape he knows instinctively as Ron, and the next warm solid shape runs after it, sparing Harry's mute broken body no glance. He wishes, in the vague unformed way that spirits do, that one of them would come to him and lay hands on his face. The sharp black scent that rises up next to him is poor substitute.

Now he smiles. "That'd be great, I can't wait to see everyone." His voice is still eager but no longer as high as it once was, a new maturity has been scarred into it. Remus is no longer smiling but hesitating. "Harry-I think..." And blissfully, before he could finish the doorbell was ringing and Snape's knock was pattering over the door. Strange, how Harry  
had never before realized that he had memorized the sound of Snape's fist.

  
Snape's hands on his are dry and smooth, his fingers pressing down as he counts off Harry's heart beats under his breath. "...Thirty, thirty-one, thirty-two..." He trails off without explaining to Harry or Remus and turns to the large satchel that he had placed next to his chair. Harry wants desperately to Silencio both of them, to cut off the dreadful talk that would inevitably follow. He doesn't want to discuss anything; he just wants to drink the potions that Snape will give him and wake up one morning healthy and whole, then to dash down the staircases to the kitchen where he will grab a slice of toast from Remus before dashing out to the back garden and amusing himself with transfiguring leaves into increasingly elaborate fountains.

He doesn't of course. Snape does hand him a potion though, a brilliant green with ominous strands of red muck hanging in the bottom. "Ugh. Is that hair?" He asks before he thinks and is rewarded with Snape's indrawn hiss of scorn. "No, Mr. Potter. It is unicorn blood and damn hard to get too. You, you ungrateful brat, will drink it. Now." His voice pulses with emotion while his face never changes. Harry gulps and quickly raises the bottle to his lips. It is vile as all potions are with a bitter edge to it. Harry wonders what Snape had paid for the precious half-ounce of unicorn blood.

Then Snape is pulling the empty bottle from his mouth and pushing a new one into his hand, this one a beautiful lavender blue that seemed to glow in the sun. He uncorks it and Snape hands him a syringe. "10 mL. Anymore and you will be in temporary coma." Snape's voice now is wry and holds a quiet air of satisfaction. He hates hate hates Snape. He wants him to burn, to see him suffer! No, no. He doesn't. He just want Snape to never talk to him like that again. He pulls the swirling blue into the syringe and squirts it under his tongue. He feels the effects instantly, a gentle fog that clouds his mind and a honey-sweet tug that lays his body down. The last thing he feels is Remus' hand heavy on his forehead.

 

#

  
Severus pauses on the landing outside Harry's room, acid roiling in his bowels. How like Potter it was, never to look and see the lengths that others had gone to for him! And what the hell had he been thinking? Why hadn't he just given Potter the restorative and a generic soporific and gotten the hell out of there? Because. Because he was a stupid brainless imbecile better left to manufacturing poisons and overseeing his snakes. Why Albus had asked him to...bugger. He had assumed, for what reasons he couldn't begin to fathom, that he would be providing Potter's potions and day-to-day care.

It wasn't as if he had any extra time on his hands, in fact between Defense Against the Dark Arts, his snakes, and the ever more perilous line he walked with the Death Eaters he had absolutely no time to spare. If it was not for the fact that Poppy was even more occupied he would gladly hand over Potter's care to her. But he would suffer through it as best he could. After all, how long could it take the Boy-Who-Lived to return to his impertinent moronic self? But next time he would not provide the fée sommeil; let the boy suffer through Dreamless Sleep. It wasn't as if he would know the difference.

  
He goes to the door the opens on the stair leading up to the top floor. The door to Regulus' room creaks as he twists the handle, a physical sign of the neglect bestowed upon him long before his actual death. It once would have made him hungry, angry and full of an unnamed desire. Now it only breaks his heart, just a little but still more then anyone can bear. The room inside is nothing like Regulus left it. In place of the single twin bed, a green duvet thrown over it, pillows still crumpled from their desperate fumbling the night before, is a tall drawing board and a single stool. In some secret corner of his mind he had expected to find their scent on the sheets, his but mainly Regulus', as if he had just walked round the hall to the bath and would in short time come bounding in, ready for a lazy afternoon of nuzzling and slow caresses.

Instead the bookshelves lined up against the side wall have been painted over, the dark mahogany that held Grimm's Greater Grimmoire, The Monster Book of Monsters, Advanced Potion Making, Coddwell's Theory of Souls, and other darker books now erased. Regulus had been in the habit of scribbling out his thoughts on scraps of foolscap as he worked and then pinning them to every available surface so that his room looked as if it had been papered by crows. They had all been banished to some basement waste bin and the walls were now pristine white. The room looked empty, with only the bookshelves and the drawing board absorbing the late afternoon sun.

Severus felt himself begin to hollow out, emptied as surely as if he been killed. It was as if he had only been able to retain the image of time passed in this room because it had remained the same. Now that he knew it was no longer his adolescent haven he found he could not picture it clearly, except to say that once he had been happy in it. He doesn't linger in this unfamiliar office but rises slowly and walks down the hall, devoid of any portraits but cleanly whitewashed, down the new stair and out the door. He hears Remus calling out from behind him but doesn't stop, instead apparating away, back to Hogworts.


	5. The Fall

The noise inside Fudge's office would be deafening, if anyone was making any. Instead it is hushed whispers and the gentle sounds of a chair scraping back. Percy groans and puts his head down, not bothering to be dramatic about it. Ever since they arrived he has been in a frantic sweat wondering how the hell he got himself into this. He wants to pace but knows that Fudge and guests will be able to hear him from the inner sanctum so instead he settle for running over a list of things to do in his head; pass the brief on Centaur Rights to the MC department, get the details of the latest muggle disaster from Scrimgeour's assistant, make sure that Ada had got Fudge's new robes from Madame Malkin's, and order some wallpaper. He glances up in disgust and moves ordering the wallpaper to the top.

The room around him is dressed up in typical ministry fashion, oak wainscoting that stood guard over off-white walls now turned to dingy grey. A semi-circle of arm chairs were artfully arranged around the floo, far enough away the people felt safe to whisper but angled in such a way so that even without an amplocanalis Percy can hear everything they say. His desk is in the middle of the room, in front of Fudge's door, blocking the entrance to the throne. While this had long been a source of pride for Percy it had given rise to a series of rather rude nicknames around the ministry, Fudge's guard bitch being the most crude and the yap-dog being the most personally offensive. Percy told himself again and again that they were all jealous but had a constant niggling feeling in the back of his mind that this wasn't quite true.

He glances up at the clock on the wall, one that has four hands instead of the usual two with one set pointing to half past two and the other to MEETING TIME in large green letters. Percy dislikes green on principle both because it is the color of Slytherin and because it reminds him of Harry Potter, that nasty boy who has been spreading such lies about the Ministry. He doesn't care that he is Ron's best friend or that Mum and Dad have practically adopted him, Harry Potter is a jealous evil little git. But anyway he will have to ask Fudge to change the color on that clock, he cannot work with that hideous shade of green staring back at him. The door behind him opens and he stiffens slightly pulling a pile of reports that he has already sorted towards him.

Lucius Malfoy sweeps around the desk, two men with dark hair that he does not recognize behind him. When they reach the door he almost sighs, moving to spring up and go to Fudge, but shrinks again when Malfoy turns back. "Percy, my dear lad. I'm afraid that this will hurt a bit." He hears Fudge behind him and tenses again but cannot escape Malfoy's wand as it arches towards him. "Imperio." Malfoy's voice is all wrong for the occasion, lazy and smooth not sharp and slick like the feel of his skin and the oh-oh-OH!!!

Percy Weasley falls back, toppling onto his desk as one of the dark haired men press their wand to his chest.

 

#

 

The Restricted Section holds no comfort for her tonight. It has always been the unwavering touchstone of Hogwarts, while the world may spin about them the answer can always be found in this dark corner of the school. Except tonight it seems that it has failed her.

She rolls up the parchment in front of and stands, shaking suddenly. She closes her eyes and does not think. She does not think of Ron, lying in the Burrow moaning in pain. She does not think of Harry, lying in Grimmauld Place with every trace of magic gone. She does not think of the horocruxes left to destroy, each one taunting her. She does not think and when the door opens and Dumbledore walks in she does not notice.

“My dear girl, please. You must come and eat something.” The Headmaster hands her a lemon drop and she pops it into her mouth, searching hard to taste the hint of Calming Potion underneath the tang of lemon. “I haven’t found anything sir. There isn’t a single damned book in Hogwarts that says anything about losing your magic. This is mad, there has to be something. I can’t-” She stops short as the Headmaster takes her hand and leads her out of the library.

  
It is only when she is seated in his office, her feet at the fireplace and dinner by her side that she begins to weep. She does not cry for Harry or for Ron or for the Order. Instead Hermoine Granger cries for herself. She cries because she must go on, she is always the one who must go on. Who must be dependable and clever and always the sensible one. She cries because she is failing, for the first time in her life.

 

#

 

 **Nov 9,1996**

He is sitting at the kitchen table, head bowed, contemplating what is left to him. Sirius,once keeper of all he held dear, once the one who read his soul far easier then any book, gone. Harry fading fast, a mere husk of all that he was, no longer the little prince of magic who had come to save them all. James, dead; the less said on such a thing the better. Peter, trusted companion, the boy who would run with him under the full moon, the boy who was closer then a brother, now a traitor kneeling at the Dark Lord's feet. And so there is nothing now, except that fragile hope that Harry would rise again, like a phoenix out of the ashes.

He feels Albus' hand on his back. "It's perfectly alright to cry, Remus. These have been very hard years for you." He pulls his head up and tries to smile. "Hello, Albus. Have you been up to see Harry yet?" "No, dear boy. I think it best to let Harry recover for a while, he has been under an immense strain and I fear my prodding will only make it worse. I simply came to see how you were doing." "As well as can be expected, I think. I can't help wishing that Sirius-that he could be here." He pushes his chair back and walks to the sink, filling the kettle. "He was a remarkable man, wasn't he? He would be proud of you, both of you, and everything you've accomplished. He spoke of you often. Every time I met with him he would talk about the three of you making your home here. He would be very happy that you're giving Harry a home."

  
Remus turns from the stove and begins pulling down boxes of tea, fingers working blindly. "But I'm not! I'm just waiting for him. I'm afraid he'll never get over this. He still hasn't acknowledged anything, insists that he's fine and refuses to talk. And I can't push him; he would just shut down." He feels tears roll from the corner of his eyes. "I'm not Sirius. And right now he needs Sirius. Not me." He says softly. He feels Albus' arms around him and rests his head on the old wizard's shoulder. "Trust me, my boy. It will all turn out right." They stand for several minutes, slowly rocking back and forth, before Remus pulls away and starts seeping the tea. Albus sits back down and watches him, eyes grave.

"Have you spoken to Severus yet?"

"No, he was here but he was...agitated. Harry said something and after that he shoved some potions down his throat and left."

"I see. You understand that he is very concerned about every thing that has happened with Harry."

"Honestly, I don't." Remus replies.

"Yes, I see. In any case we seem to be hitting a bit of a snag recently. Its a chaotic time, I know, but its imperative that we all meet soon. Shall we say, Wednesday?" Albus stands and looks at him expectantly, eyes twinkling familiarly. He wonders if anyone can resist the old man by now; if there is anyone immune to his manipulation and well-meant  
deceit. "Yes, of course. That would be fine." He sees Albus out and returns to the kitchen, reheating the tea kettle and preparing a tray for Harry.

#

He wakes coughing blood. The force of it propels him upward, spewing a disgusting clot of shining mucus and dark red blood into his lap. He cannot speak or call out for Remus, just hack and hack while his lungs come up in small pieces. His mind goes in frantic circles. Is he dying? What is wrong with him? Snape was here. Snape said he would get better. He has to be dying though, a person can't just cough up their lungs. Snape lied, though Snape never lies.

The door opens with a bang as Remus rushes in. He gasps at the sight of Harry and snaps off a quick patronus. Then Harry can feel his hands pressing down, laying him out on the bed like so much used cloth. The overwhelming taste of so much flesh in his mouth makes him gag and he chokes on his own vomit which gets trapped inside his lungs, acid burning at him. Remus pulls him up as quickly as he was pushed down and the rotted smell of vomit joins the film of blood that permeates the room.

"Harry! Harry, nod if you can hear me. I know you can't talk but you need to let me know that you can hear me. Harry!" He manages a nod and pulls his knees up to his chest, still coughing weakly. Remus looks around the room anxiously before slipping in behind him and pulling his arms tight around Harry's chest. The feel of the man behind him, warm and somehow sturdy in spite of his thinness, makes Harry feel indescribably safe, safe as he has not felt in months. He leans back and allows Remus to cradle him as coughing turns to hacking and then to wheezing.

He hears footsteps, bounding up the stairs, the shuffle of a sole contrasting the thunk of a heel. As the door is flung open and Snape enters the room he finds that he can only moan, clots of blood and tissue joining chunks of vomit to block all air from his lungs. He gasps as Snape rises up before him, spell already on his lips. A quick moment of searing agony and then-impossibly-even more blood comes out. Then he can breathe again and for a few short seconds he slumps, utterly boneless, against Remus' chest. He can hear Snape and Remus talking, a quiet buzz in the background.

"We have to get him to St.Mungo's! He can't stay here!"

"Think, for once in your miserable life! He cannot go anywhere; not without alerting the Ministry and the media. He must stay here! Now go-"

The voices fade out again and Harry is conscious only of the twin pains burning in his lungs and on his forehead. It doesn't feel like a vision coming, more like a slow acid dripping onto his scar. He has never felt this before and it scares him more than the blood. He wonders if he is-stupid, of course he is dying. He wonders if Voldemort is dying too. That would be best, he thinks. If they both expired in a quiet explosion that left no collateral damage.

#

**Nov 10,1996**

The ministry runs as it always has. There is no hitch in step, no missed cues to show that something unspeakable has happened there. Instead paper airplanes still fill the sky, the Supply Department still bitches about requisition papers, and the Aurors still function much the same. Kingsley Shacklebolt has never been accused of being a stupid man. He notices things that most people do not and then acts on them, in the most decisive way possible. He is a man of deliberate action, caution, and thought. So, when he first notices the quiet, almost imperceptible changes within the Ministry he does not rush to Fudge demanding answers, he does not take matters into his own hands, or insist that something is wrong. Instead he sends an owl.

  
#

 **Nov 11,1996**  
When she wakes in the middle of the night it is not because of the nightmares. She has grown used to those, a reminder that there is war on now and that no one can escape it. No, she is not frightened of that. Instead when she wakes clammy with sweat and heart racing it is because he is with her, always with her. He had promised her that once, that he would always stay. He hadn't kept it of course although maybe that's not his fault, is it?

It is only the night. She isn't with him anymore. Harry saved her. Harry who lies extinguished in Grimmauld Place, soul hollowed and burnt. He has always been the hero, even when she hadn't asked. He had saved her, saved Hogwarts, saved the world. It seemed to be a recurring theme with him. He had saved Ron too, in a way. Stalwart Ron who is down the hall, recovered but missing his right arm. She has never quite felt that Ron belonged to her other then the way that they all did, a redorange blur of males constantly moving past her. Even now he does not acknowledge her, other then to thank her for bringing something.

  
She has always been the end of everything.

  
She listens anxiously at the keyholes, through vents and cracks, listening for news of the war. Sometimes it seems as though that is all there is, as if the whole world is one  
brewing mess. She wonders if muggles have wars and what it would be like to live out there, in the beyond. She dreams sometimes, of a quiet lonely bed in a room full of beds and a small boy, waiting to grow up. In spite of her father's fascination with the muggles that is really all she knows of their world, the anger and vengeance inherent in such a place.

She lays quietly in her bed until the first quiet rays of dawn stain her walls pink and then she tip-toes downstairs, carefully avoiding the steps that creak. She walks into the kitchen and makes herself a cup of tea, sitting at the table to face the morning. Molly comes in at half past five, startling when she notices Ginny. "My word! And what are you doing up so early? Nightmares?" She asks in a voice that is more than half a statement. "A bit, yes. Do you need any help?" She stands and walks to the sink, picking up the kettle. "No, that's all right dear. But thank you. You'd best get upstairs and dressed now."

  
She passes Ron's room, poking her head in to watch his chest move softly, counting breathes for long minutes before turning away. She pulls on a worn pair of jeans and and a sweater, running a quick brush through her hair and moving quickly to the bathroom to splash water on her face. She is thundering down the stairs when the owl smacks against the front window. "Ginny! Can you get that, love?" "Yes, Mum." She calls back as she moves forward to unlatch the window and pull the owl inside. It is gray, with soft downy tufts that stick out and a pair of soft yellow eyes. She strokes it gently and tosses it a piece of jerky she pulls from her pocket.

 

#

  
The door closes behind the last student and Severus leans his head back, splaying out over the chair. The silence of the afternoon holds, the still light that lingers after the children have rushed out, leaving behind a quiet room. He finds the repetition of this exhausting. When there is class he wishes for those few sacred minutes after and when the students are gone he wants to be striding in front of them once more. He sighs and slowly stands, clearing away his desk, preparing to duck back into his office and emerge again.

Instead the Floo in his office chimes and he stumbles in his haste. There is a scroll laying on the hearth, dusty with soot. He sets it aside and checks the clock before tapping the tea pot and pouring himself a cup. Then he settles himself into his chair and opens the scroll.

_S._

_The Hydra is gone. They have infiltrated. Look to the moon. There is danger ahead._

_A._

And that was that. The ministry had fallen at long last. He thought absently of the plans they had set in motion, the information now floating in the air, unobtainable. And the Order, crippled, blown apart at the knees by this long awaited strike. And now Remus, of course they would start at the bottom and work their way up. Hagrid too would be in danger although he was still safe at Hogwarts. Still, no more clandestine trips to Aberforth, no more walking down Diagon Alley, no more flying through the night to rescue wayward soldiers. The war had come to Hogwarts at last.

Severus stands and straightens his vest. The clock has one hand urgently flashing on Time to Suffer and he can hear the rustles of unattended students in the room beyond. He steels his face, letting only irritation and disdain through, instead of the weeping despair he feels. He opens the door and begins.

 


	6. Werewolves of London

Nov 11th, 1996

Time passes. He isn’t sure how much, the days seem to trip into years as he lies in bed, waiting for the sound of feet coming up the stairs. Remus, three or four times a day. Severus, always when Harry wants to retreat into his own mangled body and cease to exist. Moody, a few times when Remus had to leave. And Dumbledore, never.

He wonders why now. Why does Dumbledore not come to set him to rights again? He thinks absently whenever he opens his eyes. He doesn’t know how long it has taken him, how many suns and moons have passed against the window panes before he finally comes to an answer. He is stupid and slow and clumsy, just like Snape had always taunted. A child playing at war.

And Dumbledore is the General, pulling strings and moving pieces, setting each soldier to their own purpose. Except Harry has no purpose now. Has no magic. He isn’t a weapon any longer and Dumbledore has no more use for him.

#

Tonks does not change her routine. That was one of the first things that Mad-Eye drilled into her, along with Constant Vigilance and Never Lose Sight of Your Drink. She plays a bit free and loose with the last one admittedly but the other two have become her bible. So when she learns of the ministry take over and the hastily issued Decree against Magical Creatures and Dark Beings she goes about her day as normal.

First a strong cup of coffee, milk and lots of sugar carelessly spooned in. She sits at the table and reads the papers, scoffing to herself. The Daily Prophet is pure rot as usual and she can never understand half of the Quibbler. She thinks of the strange white haired girl who flits around Hogwarts and shudders.

Then cup to the sink, a washing up charm and she sits to pull on her boots and grabs a piece of toast before heading out the door. She jiggles the lock enthusiastically, it's always been sticky and months of her half missing the key hole or being able to turn the lock on the first try has only made it worse. She walks down the stairs with a skip and goes out to the street.

Once inside the ministry she waves to the Welcome Witch and gets inside the lift, holding the door at the last minute for Alphus Gretchly, under secretary something or other for Supplies Department. “Hiya! How’s it going?” She asks cheerfully, as if her lover is not being hunted down, as if their world is not ending. It isn't Alphus’ fault, he just fills orders and delivers piles of quills.

“Hi Tonks. How’s the new chair treating you?” He asks anxiously. “Oh brilliant! Fletcher put some extra spells on it, hopefully I won't break it for a few more months.” He nods and cringes a bit. “Good, good!” He mutters as she exits the lift. “See ya!”

And then the auror’s offices. She waves to those who are in and sits down at her own desk, shuffling the files in front of her. They are all dull cases, she hasn't been let onto anything exciting in months. A few uses of dark spells in Diagon Alley, a witch who insists that her tea pot is cursed, a couple in Cattendown who spotted a Death Eater in their garden. She sighs and begins to work.

And then when the clock strikes 5:00 back home again. She waves goodbye to the room at large and heads back out to the lift. She doesn't speak to anyone this time, there is no one who knows her name and she is in no mood for idle chit chat. Out into the street and down three blocks to the Chinese place. She sits on cracked vinyl and waits, breathing in the warm scent of dumplings.

The walk home is fraught with fear. Fear that Remus would be there and she would have to send him away. He couldn’t stay with her,not with the edict and no way to keep him safe. Not when she needed to work, couldn't give it up even for him. Betrayal cut deep into her mouth, the iron tang rolling over her tongue. Oh Remus, I would love you and even die for you but I would not stop my life for you.

She is cold and faithless and she knows it. But then the other fear, that he will not be there. That he will be gone entirely with no way to get him back. Her whole world, toppled in a span of minutes. She feverishly wishes him safe at Hogwarts with only a owl left behind, beating at her kitchen window. Go home, Remus. Go!

When she opens the door to see Shacklebolt sitting by the fire she does not pause. She closes the door and locks it, sits to untie her boots. Goes to the couch and pulls out the takeaway, same as every night. “They took him.” Shacklebolt has never been one to prolong agony. It's a strange sort of mercy and tonight she wishes it were different.

“How?” Her voice does not waver or crack but she can feel a tear falling down her face. “In Diagon Alley, we hadn't been able to reach him yet and he didn't know about the ban. He was going to the bookshop, we think.” Silence fills the room as he goes quiet. She pictures Remus, lovely Remus, his hand on the door as behind him wands cracked and he fell hard. In her mind she cradled him, kissed the bruise on his head, caressed the shacking hand.

“Where is he, Kingsley? Where did they take him?” He stands and turns to the floo, looking over his shoulder with eyes that are meant to be kind. “Azkaban. Nymphadora. He is beyond our reach.” And the. Fire flares and he is gone. And she feels as if she is made entirely of dust, smothering her tongue.   
  
#

When he opens his eyes again Dumbledore is sitting by his bed as if called there by Harry’s treason. He had always suspected the old man could read every thought in his head as if it were written across his face. Of course he would come, if only to mouth shriveled little lies about getting better soon. Harry closes his eyes again and waits.

“Harry, my dear boy. How are you feeling?”

Harry squeezes his eyes tighter and then surrenders, opening them again in a whoosh. “I’ve felt better, sir.” He can see Dumbledore blink slowly at this. “Yes, I’m sure you have. Ms.Granger is still looking for any information that may help us but both help and information and far and few between these days. I’m afraid that is not all the bad news I have today, Harry.”

He isn’t surprised. The past two years have been a cascade of horrors, one rolling into the next. Magic or no, life goes on and war waits for no man. Not even the hero. He wonders if they have chosen a new hero yet, whose name he will see flashing across the Prophet headlines tomorrow. “Please sir, just tell me.” Tell me finally. Tell me all of your secrets, tell me.

“Death Eaters have infiltrated the Ministry. They have not attacked or taken over. Instead they have taken control of Fudge and several other key officials. I am very sorry to have to tell you this, indeed I would give almost anything not to but they have started rounding up magical creatures. Including the werewolves.” Blue eyes that give away nothing but sorrow. There is no twinkle now and suddenly Harry feels bereft, as if a gift had been taken from him.

“Remus? Is he…” He cannot finish this sentence. Instead the Headmaster nods. “He was taken in Diagon Alley. We don’t know where he is being kept yet. We will do everything we can to find him Harry but...we cannot afford to attack the Ministry at this time. We do not have the strength and as far as the public knows nothing is amiss. I am sorry Harry, truly I am so sorry.”

And there it is. The truth at last. We cannot afford to save him, count him amongst your dead. He closes his eyes tightly and shakes his head. No, no, nonononono. Not Remus. Not the only one left that knew his parents. Not the closest thing he had to a parent left. Not Remus with his tea and his kind eyes and the smile that said home. He thought that he couldn’t bare it and then in an instant remembers that he must. No time for grieving, no time for goodbyes.

He opens his eyes to see Dumbledore, head bent, hands clutched together. He looks old and tired, no longer the man who defeated evil and lived to tell the tale. He had been declining ever since his brush with the ring last year, stooping gradually, trailing off in the wrong places. They all wondered if he would live to see the end of Voldemort.

“What else, sir?” Dumbledore raises his head and nods. “The Department of Mysteries is no more. They’ve simply vanished and none left to say where or why. We don’t know if this was Voldemort or if they simply...left to find greener pastures. Only time will tell. There are Orders in motion now that will deliver Hogwarts into the Minister’s Control. We are all fighting very hard to stop that from happening. There is more of course but I think you’ve had enough for now my boy.”

“No, wait! What are they doing to Hogwarts?!” Harry is frantic now, his voice rising to rest among the rafters. A thousand horrible pictures burn themselves into his mind, Umbridge’s reign twisted into something far more sinister. Children dancing Cruciatus as they spin into the hallways, shadows twisting across the thresholds of the Common Rooms, McGonagall’s paralyzed face framed in the light of a thousand flames. This could not be the end, not like this.

Dumbledore shudders and Harry wonders absently if he had the same visions. “Nothing that I cannot stop. I can promise you one thing, and that is that they will never find Hogwarts.” His voice lowers and a wary shadow falls over his face. In that instant Harry vows to bind this memory away in the deepest recesses of his mind, where even Snape cannot look. “If I fail we will send the students away. They will go home. We will raise the wards and the Ministry can have their empty ruins. The train will not run for them, the thestrals will fly free, they will search for the lake until they die. Hogwarts will be safe, Harry!”

Harry pictures a band of Death Eaters, some strange perversion of Merry Men, wandering the green hillside in vain. They circle around the hills, marching on forever, until one day they sink into the ground and then become one with the soft turf. As he pictures grass growing swiftly over Bellatrix’s face he sees in his mind the castle, shimmering back into view. The train shakes off the years of vines it has collected, the thestrals fly back and cry out for Hagrid, the very stones of the castle straightening themselves against an endless abandonment.

He sighs and sinks back down into his bed, satisfied. Dumbledore stands slowly, each movement carefully practiced. He looks down to Harry and nods. “There will be an Order meeting here on Wednesday. We’ll see if you’re feeling up to coming down and sitting with us. Tonks is here now, I suspect she’ll be up shortly with some tea.” His eyes twinkled as he added, “I believe she’s made the biscuits herself. I would decline them if I were you, sweets are so hard on an ill body.” And then he is gone. Harry waits.

 

 

 

 


End file.
